


Small Print 3: Experimenting

by TheFierceBeast, VioletSmith



Series: Small Print [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Case Fic, Crobby - Freeform, Denial of Feelings, Knifeplay, M/M, Series, Slow Burn, hot bear on bear action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 19:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12349542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/pseuds/VioletSmith
Summary: Bobby keeps working on the case, keeps fooling himself about his feelings for Crowley...You probably need to read part 1 and 2 to get the gist of this.CW for very mild self-cutting.





	Small Print 3: Experimenting

For once, his dreams are blessedly peaceful. No blood, no fire. Only a lingering, whisky-flavoured warmth that Bobby barely remembers when he blinks himself awake the next morning, all curled around his spare pillow in a way he will manfully deny to the end of his days. He stretches in the early light. It's only then that his eye is caught by the book on the nightstand -  a book he's never seen before, and most certainly one that was not there when he went to bed the previous night.  
  
He rubs an unsteady palm across his eyes - nope, definitely not dreaming. His hands are still clumsy with sleep as he wrinkles his nose and fumbles the slim volume close enough to see barely-familiar script on the cover. Indonesian. Something about _Village Tales... Village Stories_? He stifles a yawn, his brain slowly catching up. Crowley had mentioned a book. He was going to drop it by. Crowley. Here. Here in his room last night, while Bobby lay sleeping. Dreaming. Unguarded. Bobby catches his lower lip between his teeth.  
  
The book is neatly bound, but well thumbed through. Bobby sits up and begins to carefully skim through it. He's not seen it before, which is a rare enough thing now that it impresses him. He swings his legs out of the warmth of his bed. Coffee. Coffee first, and then some translation. And, if Crowley has come through for them once again and this book has some potential leads, a call to the boys.  
  
He pulls on socks and jeans. Splashes some water over his face. He can't quite meet his reflection's gaze in the mirror over the basin. _Crowley, there in your room while you slept._ There's something about it that's tugging at his unconscious: he dismisses the feeling as 'vaguely creeped out' and goes to fix a liquid breakfast.  
  
Two cups of coffee later and he's making progress. Leans back in his chair, yawns and stretches and lifts his cap to run a hand through his hair. He's resorted to translation software online for some unfamiliar words - which he hates, but it's convenient - and pieced together what just might be a lead.  
  
"You ever hear of a langsuir?"

"Isn't that some fancy French crawfish?"

Bobby lets out a dry chuckle. It's good to hear Dean's voice again. "I'll take that as a 'no'. You wanna put your brother on?" He cradles the phone handset against his shoulder as he flicks through a few more pages of Crowley's book.

"Hey Bobby."

"Hey Sam. He ask you?"

"What was the name again? I'm not sure Dean quite caught it."

Bobby smiles. "Langsuir. Type of Indonesian vamp."

"Indonesian? Over here?" He can hear the uncertainty in Sam's voice, shares it if he's honest.

"That's what I thought, but I mentioned what you told me - the owl business - to Crowley, and he-"

"To Crowley?" Sam interrupts, every flavour of dubious.

"Yeah. Problem there, boy?"

"No sir, I just... well, _Crowley_?"

"Helped us before, ain't he?" Bobby has no idea why his cheeks are burning again, is suddenly glad the boys are a state away.

"I guess so. And you think this is a lead?"

"Well. These things are like skinwalkers - change into owls, prey on kids. It's worth looking into, is all I'm sayin'. Why don't you let me take this one. I'm closer."

"We can be there in like, a couple-"

"Nuh uh," Bobby cuts him short, fingertips drumming against the wear-softened leather of the book's cover. "Save your gas. Like you said, it's a long shot, and I'm local. I need backup, I'll call."

"Sure thing, Bobby." Sam sounds, if anything, a little relieved. A little tired. Ain't they all? "Just, you know. Call."

"Will do, son." The room feels suddenly very empty when he hangs up the call. Very quiet. Bobby leans back in his chair and exhales a long breath.  
  
He feels lonely, in a way he hasn't for years. And the feeling follows him throughout the day, even as he's sorting through his personal armoury, picking out which weapons he's going to take to go langsuir hunting. His hand lingers on a little silver-bladed dagger. He swallows. Tries to remember what sorta knife Crowley had used on him, but the memory of it skitters away like something wild and shy. Instead, all he can remember is his own hand on his dick. Jerking it to fantasies of Crowley, of all people, doing those unspeakable things to him. It's messed up. He tells himself sternly that a lot of people got a thing for pain of one kind or another. Bobby hadn't ever thought he was one of them - hadn't ever really thought about it at all, if he's honest. But it's not unheard of, and Bobby's a long way away from anything that could be called innocent. He supposes it's nice, in a way. Not to be too old that he can't still surprise himself from time to time. It's nothing to do with Crowley, he reasons. It's the knife Bobby's responding to, not the warm, practised hands that wielded it.  
If anything, it's _unsurprising_ he's developed a not-the-norm response to getting diced up, given his line of work. Maybe it's a survival thing. A coping mechanism. Bobby swallows the dryness in his mouth. Eyes himself, reflected in the shiny little knife blade. His eyes, wary. It's giving him the shakes again, adrenaline shakes, but the good kind: the excitement kind, like a goddamn first date. He weighs the little dagger in his palm. Spins it a couple of times, feeling the solid cool heft that's warming quick to blood-heat in his hand.  
It feels comfortable in his palm. Familiar. But the way he's reacting is all brand new. All rabbit-pulse and breath caught at the back of his throat. It would be so easy, he thinks. So easy to try it, just a little... to test it, see if it feels like it did in his dreams of Hell.  
  
The point of the blade presses against his left arm, just below his elbow. A tease. He knows how it feels to cut himself. Has cussed and grumbled through enough blood rituals, his arms and palms a crisscross of faded maps to every spell he's ever worked. Why is it different now? He presses, just lightly, and the blade bites. It's a rush - adrenaline, the prickle at the back of his neck, the sparking of nerves, of neurons. The dopey little rush of endorphins that follows it. It's familiar, like the knife. But it doesn't have the same effect on him that Crowley's knife had. That _Crowley_ had... Bobby shakes his head, sets the knife down again and smears away the prick of blood it left, absentmindedly licking it from the pad of his thumb. Not Crowley. Someone else - _anyone_ else; that must be it. Not pain, per se, but someone else inflicting it.  
  
He cleans his silver knife with holy water. Fuck, he needs a drink. He needs things he can't even name.  
  
He needs to stop thinking about the King of Hell.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so so much to anyone reading this series, we hope you're enjoying it x


End file.
